


these are the days that tie us together

by lacedwithlilacs



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-18 09:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18117947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacedwithlilacs/pseuds/lacedwithlilacs
Summary: Kassandra meets Brasidas in a warehouse in Korinth, immediately taken by the red string around his right pinky that appears and disappears with a blink. And then she sees her own red string that matches Brasidas's far too well.





	1. i've waited for you since the distant past

**Author's Note:**

> "Two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break."
> 
> titles from toki wo koe sora wo koe (across space and time) by morning musume

Kassandra notices the red string on the Spartan’s pinky for a brief moment in the heat of the warehouse. At first, she dismisses it as a stray thread from his chiton, but there’s a distinct knot around the knuckle and the thread dips to the floor. It’s there long enough for her to take note of it, the oddity of it in contrast with the chaos of battle that’s she so used to, and then it’s gone. The thugs in front of them take stance and Kassandra raises her spear and her sword.

She honestly forgets about the thread until they’re safely outside, the bandit bodies decaying in the morning sunshine. “Brasidas of Sparta,” he calls himself and she likes the sound of his name on her lips. The Aegean is calm now as the sun rises over the waves, the waves lapping rhythmically on the shore and the smell of the sea filling Kassandra’s nostrils. Brasidas raises his hand up in a gesture as he’s speaking about his plan to deal with the Monger, but Kassandra can’t turn her focus away from the red string. “Kassandra? Is something wrong?”

When she blinks, the thread is gone. “No, nothing,” she mutters and tries to make sense of what just happened. Brasidas doesn’t mention anything else about her inability to pay attention, maybe he’s still starstruck by the supposedly-dead child of legends or maybe he thinks her muscles do all of her thinking. Does he know about the string?

She doesn’t really know who to ask about it; her eyesight apparently faltering or the fact that she keeps seeing this red string on Brasidas’s right pinky every time she looks. She’s met up with him twice now, once in the warehouse and once to discuss how to handle the Monger when it comes time. Surely he must think her empty in the head with the way she stares at his right hand so much.

There is only one option who would potentially know anything about this delusion. “Anthousa,” she starts, trying to figure out how to ask about this little red string without sounding like she’s hit her head too hard in Korinthia, “Have you ever heard of something like a red string?” Kassandra asks, tucked away in the temple without anyone spying on them, after giving Anthousa information about the fire at the warehouse.

Anthousa gives her a look like she’s a fucking moron, “A red string?”

Kassandra has gone too far now, unable to turn back at this point. “Yes, it was knotted around his pinky.” Anthousa cocks an eyebrow and Kassandra realizes she may have said too much.

“I do know about it, but first, I want to know whose pinky it was wrapped around.” Anthousa is the master of this trade of art, of exchanging information with high risks and high rewards. She is also, however, a master of waiting patiently for her prey to break.

Kassandra was never patient when it came to mind games like these and she breaks after only a few seconds of Anthousa’s piercing stare. “Brasidas.” Anthousa lets out a low chuckle, covering her blooming smile with the back of her hand.

“Brasidas,” she rolls his name in her mouth, “He is a good man. A great lover.” Anthousa circles Kassandra, eyes dragging up and down like she is but a piece of meat in the agora. “I know of the red string of fate.” Kassandra swallows hard, a name like that must mean something beyond the simplicity of man. Anthousa faces Kassandra again, “It is a tale from lands far from here. To the east. Beyond the Aegean. Beyond Persia.” Gingerly, Anthousa takes Kassandra’s right hand in her own, fingers brushing gently against the very spot where Brasidas’s red string had been. “Those meant to be together are connected by the red string of fate. In theory, we all have them, but most people cannot see it. Your bond must be very special for you to see it so clearly.”

“I’ve never seen it on anyone else before.”

Anthousa smiles at Kassandra, with a grin that reminds her of a wolf ready to pounce, “Then dear Kassandra, Brasidas is your fate.”

Kassandra’s mind is swimming as she travels down towards the city of Korinth. She keeps rubbing at her own pinky where Anthousa said the red string should be. If she can see Brasidas’s red string, why can’t she see her own? Why did she see his string trailing out of the warehouse? Does he see her red string? There are no answers for her.

When she sees Brasidas, she can’t think about anything else other than Anthousa’s words. _Brasidas is your fate_. But she doesn’t see the string anymore, not when she focuses too hard on Brasidas’s hand and tries to make it appear before her eyes. Still, she has a hard time forgetting the very distinct loop of it around Brasidas’s finger and dismissing Anthousa’s tale.

For two years, Kassandra sails around the Aegean with the Adrestia, from Euboea to Naxos, searching for her mother, cultists, and her lost brother. She almost forgets the entire thing when she sees Brasidas in Sparta, his eyes bright like she remembers them being and his voice full of laughter. He grasps at her forearms in a welcoming reunion and gives her mother kisses on her cheeks. Kassandra tries her hardest to convince herself that she hasn’t thought about him continuously for the last two years. “Sparta has missed you two,” he says to them, his smile wide as he wraps his arm around Kassandra’s shoulder. “Welcome home.”

His embrace is warm and inviting, unfamiliar after spending so long fighting against everything in her way, and she revels in it. Momentarily, she lets herself relax against Brasidas’s side, taking in the way that he smells like sweat and spice. Standing in front of her childhood home, the sun beating down on her back, she feels content here, even happy for the first time in a long while. Myrrine smiles at them and Kassandra turns suddenly self-conscious about how close she is to Brasidas. Kassandra pulls herself away from Brasidas’s side as her mother begins to speak with him about getting their house back from the kings.

Myrrine has work to do in the city elsewhere, contacts to revisit, relationships to rebuild, and she wastes no time getting to work. Brasidas offers to tell her where to find the Spartans giving weapons to the helots, “I have the information in my apartment.” Kassandra follows him through the streets that seem so familiar yet foreign to her. It’s been years since she last weaved her way through the maze that is Sparta, but the city feels like it did almost twenty years ago.

“What are you doing here in Sparta?” Kassandra asks on the way to his home.

Brasidas laughs, his laughter low and deep in his chest and Kassandra’s heart aches. She definitely did not think about him non-stop for two years like this. “I may be a spy, but even a spy has to have a home base.” Brasidas’s home is sparse, fitting for a soldier who spends months to years away from it. A large main room and a single smaller room off to the left with a bed that Kassandra can see through the doorway. His furniture is simple and there are no decorations around indicating any sort of sentimentality to any particular aspect of life. His table, however, is littered with pages and pages of information. She can make out sporadic splotches of purple on a few of the sheets before she realizes they must be the drippings of fruit. Brasidas leafs through the stack on the table and hands her one, “I apologize if I got any plum juice on that one.”

Kassandra takes the roll and laughs as she unfurls it, “They look better than any paper in my bag.” Most of the notes in her pack are soaked from the Adrestia or spending nights in the pouring rain or caked with dirt between the folds. She reads over the information on the page, making out the crude map in the corner with a poor representation of Fort Praisai. When she looks up, she catches Brasidas staring at her, with a look in his eyes that seems vaguely predatory. Kassandra swallows hard and pretends that she doesn’t like it.

“You look good,” Brasidas says simply, “Have the years treated you well?” She wonders if he means anything deeper by that.

“It’s been hectic,” Kassandra responds, walking over to his kline and taking a seat with the second page of the note, “but I found my mater.” Brasidas turns back to his table, shuffling through another stack of papers. “But I’m starting to think that finding her was the easy part.”

There’s a lull in the conversation while Kassandra reads over the letter and Brasidas tries to find information on the other two Krypteia. In the blink of an eye, Kassandra sees the red string beyond her page, stretching across the room and up towards the table, disappearing between two pages. Brasidas pulls his hand back as he digs through another pile and the red string is tied firmly around his pinky. Kassandra traces it while she can, the string flowing into the bedroom (he had removed his armor when they first arrived) and then it swirls in front of her feet. The other end is clearly tied to the first knuckle on her right pinky.

Kassandra’s mouth goes dry, for all the denial she’s gone through for the past two years, she cannot deny this. She tries to touch it to know what it feels like, but when she almost has it between her fingers, it’s gone with another blink. She deflates a bit, disappointed at the fact that she almost had it in her grasp, only to lose it at the last second. She cannot focus on the letters on the page anymore, her head full of possibilities and situations where she can press herself against Brasidas’s strong body.

Brasidas clears his throat, hand outstretched to her with another roll of paper for her to read over, “Are you feeling okay, Kassandra?”

Kassandra smiles up at him, trying not to tell him that she knows the gods themselves have created them for each other. “It’s just been a long day so far.”

Brasidas doesn’t look convinced, extending a hand out for her to take and stand. “Have you eaten?” Kassandra shakes her head as she takes his hand, noting how his skin is rough and calloused and feels amazing against her skin. “I’ll share my lunch with you then,” Brasidas says without any room for argument. Somehow, he collects all of his papers together in an organized mess and clears the table for them. His meal is simple, much like the rest of him she’s coming to learn; bread, meat, cheese, and wine.

After the sun peaks and begins to fall in the sky, Kassandra sets out towards Fort Praisai to find the Krypteia supplying the helots. “Let me know if I can assist in any way,” Brasidas says to her as she’s leaving. He extends a hand out for a shake.

“I will,” she says, gripping his hand and smiling genuinely. “Well met, Brasidas of Sparta.”

She works quickly, taking out one Krypteia under the cover of night and the other in the early winkings of the morning. The third one she finds stirring the crowd in Krokeai close to noon and she waits patiently until he is alone and runs her spear through his throat. She returns to Brasidas's apartment, knocking on the door and then wondering for the first time what she was doing here. Brasidas didn’t need to be kept up to date on the situation; he likely had his own work to do and she already knew that the leader of these particular Krypteia was holed up in a quarry to the west. Find the ring leader, take him out, the circle breaks; it’s a pattern she’s seen many times before.

Kassandra almost leaves, convinces herself that she shouldn’t bother Brasidas because of her own selfish reasons, when he opens the door for her. “Kassandra?” he says somewhat surprised. The sun is dipping just below the peaks of Mount Taygetos and the orange of the sunset behind her makes him squint. “Have you been successful?”

Brasidas offers her into his home once again for the second time in two days. She really ought to be more discreet. “I have,” she reports, “and with new information.” The table is clean, papers gone, but he motions for her to sit there and show him. Kassandra pulls the bloodied notes out of her pack, the blood has dried to a dark copper color since she extracted them from the lifeless bodies they were intended for. “There is a leader of these rogue Spartans. A captain in the quarry to the west.”

He hovers over her shoulder, reading over the notes. Kassandra can smell him, the scent of sweat, leather, oil, and a faint remnant of figs. Brasidas clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “I know this man. His name is Mantios.”

“Do you know everyone in Sparta?”

Brasidas stands tall and laughs, his shoulders shaking slightly. She certainly didn’t mean it in a humorous way, but she’s glad to hear him laugh. “You seem to forget my trade involves the exchange of information. In short, yes.” He walks over to his kline and relaxes on it and she notices that he’s not wearing any armor. Only a simple red tunic which is thread barren and worn, but obviously loved by the stitches over small rips and tears. “When will you assault the quarry?”

“Tonight. Any longer and Mantios may realize I’m coming for him like I came for his fellow dogs last night,” Kassandra says, but she’s honestly exhausted. She’s been awake since she left the Adrestia yesterday morning, near thirty-six hours, and the edges of her sanity are frayed.

“Tonight?” Brasidas questions, sitting back up and giving her a once over that seems more accusatory than friendly. “I know you’re strong, inhumanly so, but even I can see you’re about to fall over. When did you last rest?” Her silence is all he needs to hear, rising from his kline and grabbing at Kassandra’s arm. “Sleep here until the moon rises. You can use my bed.”

“I’m fine Brasidas,” Kassandra tries to protest, but she doesn’t have the strength to even fight back against his gentle touch. Her limbs sag and her eyes can barely stay open. She feels like she’s drunk right now, but with all of her reflexes gone and none of the warmth in her belly. Assaulting the quarry on her weary feet like this would almost certainly result in a fatal miscalculation. Her sleeping schedule was never regular, but she almost never carried on for this long without resting. Brasidas more or less forces her into his bedroom, also sparsely decorated with only his spear and shield leaning against the wall and freshly oiled.

“I will wake you when it’s time.” Kassandra falls into his bed wearing her armor and sleeps heavier than she has in weeks.

The quarry is resolved with the Mantios’s blood painting the marble and the helot’s weapons burned to cinders. It takes a few days to garner an audience with the kings, despite Myrrine’s best efforts. For the most part, Kassandra spends the days in Gytheion without anywhere else to go. There’s usually always something to do on the Adrestia, but even she is getting restless on the deck that’s still tied to the harbor. Myrrine finds Kassandra easily enough amongst the other ships, climbing up the gangplank and finding her daughter sharpening her broken spear.

Kassandra jumps off the ship once her mother tells her that their meeting is tonight. She is itching to get going, to get moving forward again. Her mother’s horse is tied next to Phobos, Phobos’s white coat shining and even she stamps her foot impatiently when she sees Kassandra. It seems like years ago that she rode down this same pathway with her mother for the first time in twenty years, though it’s only been a week. “Kassandra,” Myrrine calls from in front as they exit the port town and its narrow roads. The birds are chirping lightly in the midmorning sun, the air crisp and cool as it flows down Mount Taygetos, chasing away the last grips of winter. Myrrine slows her borrowed horse to trot next to Kassandra and Phobos, “What is your relationship with Brasidas?”

Kassandra nearly loses her balance on Phobos’s back at the question, what on earth had brought this up? “We met in a warehouse in Korinth. Fought together against the Monger.” Myrrine crinkles her nose, whether at the avoidance of the question or at the mention of the Monger, Kassandra isn’t entirely sure. “Why?”

Myrrine’s eyes narrow, that piercing gaze that only a mother can possess staring past Kassandra’s defenses. “I regret that I never got a chance to tell you about many parts of becoming a woman,” Myrrine starts and Kassandra groans.

“Mater, we’re,” Kassandra hangs on the word; acquaintances, colleagues, friends? Instead she changes her direction, “There’s nothing between us. And I don’t need a discussion about sex either.”

Myrrine pulls her horse ahead, stopping them both on the pathway. “Kassandra, I saw it.” Kassandra furrows her eyebrows, saw the way that Brasidas had held onto her too long that first day in Lakonia? Or perhaps the way he seemed to dote over her wellbeing when nobody else batted an eyelash? “Your red string.”

A pit forms in Kassandra’s stomach and she suddenly feels ill. Is this how her mother plans to train her for their discussion with the Kings? Disarm her of all her confidence now before she can make a fool of herself in front of the most powerful men in all of Sparta? “Mater,” Kassandra starts, but there’s nowhere to go.

“By your reaction I can tell you know of it.” Myrrine moves her horse out of the way, motion for Kassandra to follow. Luckily, Phobos is smart and catches up quickly without Kassandra spurring her on. “You’ve seen it too then. You are destined for each other.”

“How did you know?”

Myrrine smiles fondly, lovingly, but Kassandra can only stare blankly, lost in thought, her head fuzzy in ways that make her question if she can even weather an audience with the kings like this. “You’ve always known our bloodline is special, my lamb. It gives you not only your physical power, but the power to see things in this world reserved only for the special few. This is merely part of it. I can see yours connects to Brasidas.”

Kassandra toys with her right pinky, rubbing at the first knuckle and trying to will the thread back into her field of vision. “Did you and Pater share one?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Myrrine’s smile turn sad. “No. Nikolaos was tied to a girl who died while we were young, his red string broke before we were married. And mine, it trails somewhere to the east, beyond the seas. I’ve searched, but never found them.” Myrrine looks out towards the Helot Hills and the Aegean in the distance, presumably following the red string that leads somewhere far away. In the back of her mind, Kassandra wonders how many peoples’ red strings her mother can see. “Cherish Brasidas, lamb. Though we all have a red string, very few of us ever meet the person on the other end.”

Phobos carries Kassandra diligently along the road to Sparta, Kassandra lost to her own world of thoughts. If her mother wished for her outspoken daughter to behave in front of the kings, then she has won. Brasidas meets them in front of the hall where the kings wait, pressing polite kisses to Myrrine’s cheek and greeting Kassandra with a firm pat on the back. “Good to see you both again,” he says lightheartedly and Kassandra wonders if her mother can see the string between them right now. “Kassandra, if you think any louder I worry the kings may hear your thoughts.” Brasidas teases as they wait for the messenger to announce their arrival. He leans in a bit closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, “There’s no need to be scared of them; they are human just as we are.”

Kassandra scoffs; if only her nerves about meeting the kings were the root of her troubles. “Me? Scared? You must have me mistaken with someone else.”

Brasidas chuckles, his laugh deep and genuine, “My apologies.” Kassandra doesn’t miss the way her mother looks at them.

Two tasks for two kings, both reasonably impossible and both on opposite sides of Hellas. It will take her far from the place she has too quickly adapted to as home, spanning months away from this valley. After she completes the tasks for the kings in four months’ time, she will travel westward to Arkadia and meet her mother and Brasidas. First, she will sail north to Megara, travel on horseback to Boeotia and secure the region for Sparta. Then she will take the Adrestia back south, around the swell of Lakonia and Messenia, and win the Olympics in Sparta’s honor. She wonders if a house is even worth this much effort, but now she has no choice once the kings give their assignments. If she wants her and her mother’s Spartan citizenship, she will have to jump through the hoops they line up for her.

The sun has set since the meeting began, the braziers lit along the streets of Sparta and the crickets sing in the distant fields. “Will you travel back to the Adrestia tonight?” Myrrine asks as the three of them gather around a large brazier. Though the days are warm, the nights are still cold with the thawings of winter to spring.

Kassandra nods, “I need to tell them to ready themselves to depart.”

Myrrine frowns worryingly, “It’s too late tonight. Come stay with me and Agape, she’s an old friend who wouldn’t mind you staying with her. Her children are grown and she has too much empty space now.” Although riding to Gytheion at this hour sounds unpleasant enough on its own, the idea of staying with her mother and mother’s old friend (a stranger to her) is worse.

“I’ll be fine Mater, it’s really not that far. We can meet again in the morning.” Myrrine natters but eventually kisses Kassandra’s forehead like she used to do so many years ago and bids her goodnight. When Myrrine is safely out of ear shot, Kassandra groans and rubs at her eyes, “Mothers.”

Brasidas laughs at her frustration, “Myrrine simply worries for you.” The fire crackles between them, the pops and sizzles of the embers breaking the silence. “I know it is late, but is it too late to share an amphora of wine between friends?”

Kassandra hasn’t had much wine with anyone besides Barnabas and Herodotos for months at this point. She sits next to Brasidas on the rooftop of his apartment, the moon over three-quarters full and hanging low in the sky, bathing everything in a cool blue color. Things flow naturally between them, Kassandra telling him about the places she’s been in the past two years since they parted in Korinth and Brasidas telling her about the vision he has for a more peaceful, future Sparta. They finish off one amphora, retreating inside of Brasidas’s apartment to begin the second one when she kisses him for the first time.

He tastes like sweet wine and smoke and spice. The amphora of wine sits undisturbed on Brasidas’s table as he takes her to his room and explores her body. He is skilled, fingers deft and rough and he knows just where to press and slide his fingers for her to come apart at the seams. And for all his skill, she meets him with raw enthusiasm, riding him until her legs ache and she can barely sit upright anymore. When she collapses on top of him, her skin slick and sticking to his, something in her chest swells until she feels that she may burst.

She blinks awake in the morning, unsure of where she is at first. The bed is too soft and comfortable for it to be her bedroll on the Adrestia, and then she feels Brasidas’s arm draped over her waist and holding her to him. In the growing sunrise that peaks in through his window, she can see her red string tied tightly against her right pinky, the thread draping around her, around the bed, connecting to his right pinky next to his head. The thread is longer than she expected it to be, trailing out into the main room and presumably further than that. It will have to be long though, for he will leave on the next full moon in four days and she will tell her crew that is already prepped and ready that they will leave the same day. Theoretically, they could leave today if she pushed them, but she wants to be unabashedly selfish for once.

Brasidas wakes a short while later, his hand roaming her body as he presses the lightest kisses to the crook of her neck. She’d fallen back into a light sleep, reawaken by the feeling of butterfly kisses against her jaw. She’s supposed to meet her mother, but the sun isn’t too high yet and Kassandra can possibly feign travel time from Gytheion. Though she supposes her mother will know better when she can smell Brasidas on her daughter’s skin.

Brasidas’s fingers dip between her folds, rubbing teasingly at her clit and spreading her quickly forming wetness. He slides two fingers inside of her, the heel of his hand pressing against her clit as he thrusts and curls his fingers, making her cry out. She reaches behind her, grasping at his cock, but the angle is too awkward, too strenuous and she has to abdicate her grip. Brasidas doesn’t seem to mind though, his movements faster and rougher inside of her until she’s grabbing at his forearm and clenching her muscles around his fingertips. She rolls over when her vision comes back to her, when the stars stop dancing before her eyes, kissing Brasidas deep and with all of her heart.

They fuck two more times before tearing themselves out of bed, Kassandra’s legs shaky and her body weak despite being well rested. Four, now three, days together is not long enough, she laments silently, afraid to say anything out loud just in case Brasidas changes his mind about them. With unspoken words and unsaid promises, there cannot be disappointment.

Kassandra meets her mother in the agora, leaving her hair down uncharacteristically after Brasidas had apologized for leaving a small love bite on the back of her neck this morning. Myrrine is not fooled for a second. “Kassandra,” her mother greets her with a kiss to both cheeks, “You’re late, though there’s no need for you fabricate excuses.” Myrrine takes her daughter’s right hand and smiles at the pinky.

They move to a shaded garden where there are less people and the sounds of birds replaces the hawking of vendors. They sit on a bench overlooking a small garden of flowers with petals popping out for the first time this year. “Your thread is stronger now, your bond deeper.” Myrrine says, enjoying the gentle breeze as it rustles the treetops.

“Do you see it all the time? Can you see other people’s?”

Myrrine shakes her head, “No. If I think about yours, I can see it. But you need to know the person well enough to see their red string. Can you imagine if we didn’t? The entire world would be a sea of red strings. But I couldn’t always see it whenever I pleased, maybe since my forties or so. Before then, I had to focus undisturbed. But you Kassandra, are powerful; I think you should be able to see your own whenever you wish.”

Kassandra relaxes on the bench, pressing her back against the wall behind them, “I can’t.”

Myrrine looks surprised and takes Kassandra’s hand again. “Perhaps I can teach you.” Kassandra nods, waiting for instruction like she used to so many years ago when Myrrine would train her. Myrrine lifts Kassandra’s hand into her line of sight, positioning the right pinky in front of her. “Think about the person, or yourself in your case. Hone in on your sense of them, imagine them without fear or judgement. Just think about their truest form of themselves. Then reach out further, about the person that they can become.”

The string forms around Kassandra’s pinky out of thin air, starting so narrow that Kassandra can barely see it. And then it grows, its thickness growing to the size she remembers and then continuing. The thread is bright red, redder than before, and thick like a strand of wool rather than a bare threat hanging off of a chiton like before. Then, for practice, Kassandra tries to see her mother’s string. Before her eyes, she sees the thinnest wire around Myrrine’s finger, thinner than she had ever seen on Brasidas’s hand or her own. The wire drags through the dirt, out to the east just like her mother had said.

Myrrine nods approvingly, pleased with Kassandra’s new ability, “Do you see it? Can you hold it in your sight?”

“I can see it Mater, and yours too.”

When Kassandra boards the Adrestia a few hours later, Barnabas almost doesn’t recognize her with her hair down. “It looks good,” he backtracks after nearly asking her what business she had on the ship. “What did the Kings say about your home and your citizenship?”

A gust of wind blows in from the Aegean and Kassandra damns the fact that her leather strap is laying on Brasidas’s floor somewhere. She removes a lock of hair from her mouth once the wind settles, glad that the crew is mostly scattered to the nearby tavernas. “We go to Boeotia, win the land over for Sparta and then head to the Olympics with a star athlete and ensure Sparta’s victory.”

Barnabas can’t contain his excitement at the mention of the Olympics, “Kassandra! I’ve always wanted to go to the Olympics! You can do the hard work and I’ll enjoy the scenery for you.”

“Wonderful,” Kassandra deadpans in response. “We leave in three days, prepare the ship and the crew. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Three days passes too quickly, spending the nights in the heart of Sparta, her body strung out before Brasidas night after night. It alleviates some fear inside of her that he views her as nothing more than a casual encounter. Surely he wouldn’t unlock his door every night if she was, would he?

Vaguely, she wonders if she should tell him about the red string that she makes appear before her eyes every morning. It grows thicker, denser around their fingers with each passing day, but she cannot feel anything weighing her down. Brasidas, however, doesn’t seem like a man heavily influenced by the fates and their ministrations and so she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she holds his hand too frequently, kisses at his knuckles, and makes the string appear on his hand over and over. The novelty of the new-found power hasn’t worn off yet and she likes to watch it sometimes when he fucks her, be assured that they are meant for each other.

The day comes too quickly when they must part, both of them readying their packs for their long journeys ahead. Brasidas will make his way westward with Myrrine and Kassandra will scatter to the wind like she’s famous for. “Mater knows about us,” she warns as they eat a solemn breakfast of the remaining bread in Brasidas’s apartment and goat’s cheese.

“You told her I presume?” Brasidas holds the bread in his teeth while he arranges a few key pages of information in his pack.

Kassandra shakes her head, gathering her hair up to twist it into her braid, “She’s very observant. Don’t worry; she won’t judge you for it.”

Brasidas smiles at her, “Perhaps not, but she may try to determine if I am good enough for her daughter.” He rises after he closes his pack and joins her back at the table. “Kassandra,” he takes her hands into his own, the skin rough and calloused and she wants to kiss at his palms, “Don’t worry about us. Win Boeotia for Sparta. Ensure the Spartan victory in Elis. But for the love of Apollo, come back to me safely.”


	2. i believe i'll meet you in this world

A month passes too slowly, but also so quickly that Kassandra’s head spins. There is so much to do in Boeotia, champions to track, civilians to aid, appeasing Stentor with his ill-aimed rage. On the shores of the island with the military fort of Gla, she meets her father again for the first time in years. He looks exhausted, age sagging at his skin and limbs, but Nikolaos is still sharper than any other soldier. “What have you been doing since Megaris?” Nikolaos asks as the midday sun beats down on them, sweat running down their brows in the early days of summer.

Kassandra shrugs, because what hasn’t she done in the last three and a half years since she last saw him? “I found Mater.”

“Where?”

“Ruling Naxos,” Kassandra says.

Nikolaos chuckles, “Sounds like your mother. Why are you here then, instead of with her?”

Kassandra rolls over the dead champion in the dirt, her father’s final spear wound still festering with bubbles of blood. She riffles through his pockets, looking for a trinket to bring back to Stentor as proof of Aristaios's death. The likeliness of her little brother taking her word at face value is close to zero judging by his initial reaction to her appearance at camp. In the pocket next to Aristaios’s heart is a letter with Kleon's official stamp. “Archidamos sent me in order to reclaim the family home and my Spartan citizenship. Win Boeotia, he said, like it was an easy task.”

Nikolaos leans against his spear, grounded solidly in the earth. “King Archidamos sent you?” Nikolaos emphasizes Archidamos's title, a subtle jab against Kassandra’s lack of respect, “He may seem harsh, but he must trust your skill if he sent you here alone to win these plains. For most, he would have at least had a trusted spy tail you.”

It certainly is an oddity when her father puts it that way; a test of loyalty that has consequences of this magnitude? The lives of hundreds of Spartan men placed in her hands by way of hoping that she can ensure a victory? Trusting Kassandra to lead the Spartan army to Athens’ door? All without an escort to keep tabs on her and judge if she acts in Sparta’s best interest. “I found Alexios,” Kassandra adds as she pulls a purse of drachmae from Aristaios’s belt, “Controlled by the cult of Kosmos, but alive. He goes by the name Deimos now.”

Nikolaos tenses, the name of Kosmos means something to him which is either a good thing or a terrible thing. “I know of the name Deimos, Athens’ dog. But to find out that it’s Alexios, that he is alive,” Nikolaos breathes out, finding a large rock on the cliff to sit down on and process the information. With big eyes that say far more than his words, he pleads “Can he be saved Kassandra?”

“I don’t know. He’s been so damaged by the cult’s abuse. Even Perikles's throat was slit by Alexios's blade. I saw him, there was no remorse in his eyes when he did it, only sick pleasure. But I will try to free him from their grasp Pater.” Kassandra joins her father on the make shift bench, clasping her hands in front of her and resting her elbows on her knees. “I will try.”

They sit in comfortable silence, their spot shaded by the sparse umbrella of leaves. “Pater,” Kassandra says, kicking her sandal into the dust and twiddling her thumbs together, “I also met someone. A good man, a Spartan.” She’s not entirely sure why she’s telling him this; she’s a grown woman who doesn’t need to justify her relationships or share details with a man who tried to throw her to her death twenty years ago. But for the first time in many, many years, she longs for a father. “We met in Korinth, reconnected in Sparta.”

Nikolaos smiles, friendly nudging at Kassandra’s shoulder. “Treasure the time you have together Kassandra. It is too easy to lose track of the years away from home and forget the people who are close to you on the road.” There is a pause. Kassandra makes the thread appear on her pinky, too many bored nights on the Adrestia have sharpened her skill to the point of effortlessness. Despite the distance between them, the knowledge that her string is still there brings her the comfort of knowing Brasidas was still out there, alive at the very least. “Do you share a string?”

Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised with the way that she’s so blatantly obvious, but she is. “You can see it too?”

“No,” Nikolaos shakes his head, “but your mother told me about them when we were younger. And you’re not very subtle either.” Kassandra wonders if Myrrine told him all those years ago that their fates were not intertwined or if she left that interpretation up to Nikolaos. “What’s his name?”

“Brasidas,” Kassandra responds too quickly.

Nikolaos's smile returns, “Yes, he is a very good man.”

They part a short while later, Kassandra needing to continue her hunt for the remaining champions and Nikolaos leaving in the opposite direction. It takes her a week to cut the other champions down, weakening them each with assistance from those who nobody else pays any mind to. When she returns to Stentor, she carries a letter from Kleon for Aristaios, a dagger with a customized, bejeweled handle from Nesaia, Deianeira’s signature hair pin, and Drakon’s crest that allows unrestricted access to any gymnasium in Boeotia. She places each spoil on Stentor's war table and names the champions she cut down for each item.

In two days, they charge on the Athenians. The battle is bloody but winnable, Athenian troops scattered without the champions that their command had counted on. With Kassandra’s strength adding to the Spartan forces, they overtake the battlefield. With Boeotia firmly in Spartan control, Kassandra can check off one item from her list, one impossibility achieved, one step closer to reuniting with her mother and Brasidas. She returns to the Adrestia a week after the battle, tying up any loose strings in Boeotia before she leaves.

They make a detour to Athens from Megara, catching up with friends in the city and checking to see how things have progressed since the death of Perikles. The city is broken, her atmosphere darker since the plague struck, but her people are slowly healing. Kleon has taken over with an iron grip on the city and vaguely Kassandra knows that she will have to come back and deal with him later. For now, she checks in with people to make sure that those she had shared wine with last year are still breathing. Luckily for her, everyone besides Perikles are still alive and greet her with wide arms for the few days they stay in port.

The Adrestia travels southward, stopping at the island off the coast of Messenia where Testikles trains. After they secure Testikles and his belongings onto the Adrestia, it’s a short journey to Elis. And then, suddenly Kassandra finds herself enrolled in the Olympics. Luckily she is entered in the pankration rather than discus throwing or chariot racing or any other sport that she isn’t intimately familiar with.

The five days of the games are enough for Kassandra, who is exhausted by the end. The notion that the games would be easy in comparison to Boeotia is thrown out by the fourth day when Alkibiades ends up poisoned. She strikes down another cultist after the golden wreath is placed on her crown. With the Olympics end, she can travel back to Sparta and relay her victories to the kings. Then she will travel westward and find her mother and Brasidas who are investigating disappearing grain in Arkadia.

Kassandra left Sparta over four months ago, but it seems like it’s been longer. It feels like years since she wandered the streets searching for krypteia, waiting for the Kings to decide what to do with the girl Sparta left for dead. “Kassandra,” Barnabas calls from the deck as Kassandra is helping the crew to prepare the Adrestia for docking, ”a letter for you.” The seal is still intact and Kassandra slices through it with her dagger.

> “Kassandra,
> 
> I’ve heard of your victories in the north and the west. Your mother and I have made significant progress in Arkadia. We will wait for you at the Statue of Artemis in The Cedar. Be warned, Arkadia is not safe. Take care and come back to me.
> 
> \- Brasidas of Sparta”

The letter is dated late last week, but if she hurries she may still find them at the statue. Brasidas has already tempted the fates by writing his location so bluntly in the letter, but the seal is intact and so Kassandra hopes for the best. She bypasses the city and sets off immediately towards the north, spurring on Phobos as fast as she will go. She can make it in a day if she sleeps little and pushes Phobos on with promises of vegetables from her pack. After a restless night of sleep, as she always experienced in the unfamiliarity of the forest, she sees the statue in the distance. Artemis with her bow has never been a more welcome sight to Kassandra's eyes.

But it’s all wrong, because Brasidas nor her mater are anywhere to be seen. Within a few quick exchanges with the mercenary, her fingers flex towards her spear, towards her sword, waiting for the tides to turn on the conversation like she assumes it will. This mercenary, a nobody he called himself, will not stand in her way after everything she has been through in the past four months. She cuts him down, like a weed in the field, without hesitation and her anger barely stifled. She presses the tip of her spear against the mercenary’s neck, the blade leaving a single droplet of red running down his throat as she threatens him. “A cliff, overlooking Tegea.”

Then she is gone, leaving the mercenary in the dust with his sword and shield broken and his ego bruised. She wonders what Brasidas would say, if he would commend her for letting him live despite the circumstances or if he’d scold her for leaving yet another enemy in Arkadia. She will have to ask him. Tegea is not too far after all that she has covered to reunite with her mother and Brasidas. The morning has barely peaked when Kassandra sees the tendril of smoke rising from the top of the cliff, Ikaros confirming that both her mother and Brasidas are there.

She comes up on a heated debate, her mother and Brasidas arguing in a way that does not seem unfamiliar to either party. They have had this debate before, she can tell by their stances that both of them are unwilling to give up their position on the matter. Ikaros cries out and both of them turn towards her. Her mother runs up and envelops Kassandra into a large hug, “You are safe, my lamb.”

Kassandra hugs her back, the feeling so natural despite their distance for so long. The embrace reminds her of that time on Naxos all those months ago when they first met again. She hopes that the feeling of her mother’s arms, the feeling of coming back, will never get old.

Brasidas stands a respectable distance away, his eyes sparkling in a way that makes Kassandra’s palms sweat. She looks at him, his red string connected to his pinky and trailing down the path before returning to her own pinky. Nothing has changed and for that she is grateful. Myrrine releases her grip on Kassandra’s shoulders, “Well, go on.” She turns her back to the two as Brasidas pulls Kassandra in for a kiss.

“You came back to me,” he whispers once they’ve pulled away, his hands on her forearms and rubbing circles onto her skin like he can’t believe she’s really here.

“I always keep my promises.” Myrrine turns back to them and they separate. “I heard you two arguing, what’s happened?”

Myrrine’s expression turns sour from being reminded about their debate. Brasidas fills her in on the details, “These cultists have put a bounty on you and your mother’s heads. The head of the operation is a man named Lagos. He is an old friend, from the agoge. He is not evil, I’ve known him since we were both young.”

“And you are letting your emotions cloud your judgement,” Myrrine interrupts, “We need to remove him Kassandra, place his head on a pike to scare the puppet king in Sparta.”

Brasidas clenches his jaw, holding back his words until he has time to mull them over enough, “Death is not the only solution.”

Kassandra nods, noting the way that Myrrine’s scowl deepens, “We should figure out what we can about Lagos and the cult. Mater, I was at a cultist meeting in Delphi years ago. Not every member of the cult is there because they seek chaos; some are being manipulated. Lagos could be one of them.”

Myrrine throws her hands up, “We will do it your way Kassandra. But you shouldn’t let sentimentality cloud your judgement either.” The quip digs deep, like Myrrine had meant for it to. She doesn’t think that Brasidas’s plan is better because she’s fantasized about nights in his tent. Her mother walks away to tend to the fire where a small pot with a stew bubbles. “Have you eaten?” Myrrine asks as Kassandra’s stomach rumbles at the mention of food.

She wants nothing more than to feel Brasidas’s skin against hers, the subtle brush of fingers against his arm, a playful poke with the tip of her sandal. Myrrine watches them like a hawk while the three of them share the stew meant for two, the tips of Kassandra’s ears on fire from the embarrassment of being treated like a child. Kassandra tells them of the way Boeotia smelled of mold and ash and the stark difference between the burned plains and the lush valley of Elis. The circumstances that saw her claim the Olympics for Sparta. Myrrine listens with half disbelief while Brasidas soaks it in, visibly beaming with pride when she describes how she bested Stentor at his own game.

“Accompany me to the safehouse?” Brasidas asks when they’ve cleaned their bowls, “We can find information about Lagos there.”

Myrrine disapproves, Kassandra can tell by the way that her mother turns her back to the two of them, bidding them off with only a single, “Be safe, Kassandra.” They walk down the hill from the cliff, the leaves crunching beneath her feet as she rubs at her pinky where her string lies. When they reach the bottom, Myrrine a speck in the distance, Brasidas pulls her into the trees off of the main road, his hand gripping hers in a way that makes her heart leap in her chest.

When Brasidas deems them sufficiently far enough, he presses her up against a tree and kisses her like a man starved. His kisses pull at her bottom lip, silently begging for her to let him in, tongue pressing against hers. He ruts his hips against hers, his erection hard against her thigh and she’s missed him more than words can possibly say. Four days they had spent together in Sparta, but she feels like she’s been his lover for years.

He lifts her against the tree, her legs resting on his hips as he moves their small clothes to the side and enters her. She’s been dreaming about this reunion for months, imagining how they would spend their days together without the threat of the cult. He feels so good inside of her, his fingers knowing all the places to press so that she loses her mind in the midst of the Arkadian forest. He lowers her onto shaky legs, she still leans against the tree trunk as she lets her body regain its bearings. “I love you,” she says suddenly and then wants to pull it back in immediately. Four days in Sparta. Four. Days.

Brasidas kisses her hard, his lips edging on bruising. “Normally,” Brasidas starts and Kassandra wants to crawl into a hole and die, “I wouldn’t rush things like this, but you, Kassandra.” There’s a pause where he chooses his words carefully, “You are different.” He pulls her in for another kiss and Kassandra feels her soul wither inside of her, embarrassment pricking sweat beneath her breastplate. “I love you too.”

The embarrassment turns to something larger, radiating from her toes to the tip of her nose, and she kisses him again. And again. Until they’re out of breath and panting against one another. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you while we were apart.”

Brasidas laughs and her feelings soar. “That makes two of us.” She pushes herself off of the tree, straightening her breastplate and scarf properly again. “I’ve never felt such a strong connection to anyone before. It’s,” Brasidas stops and he can’t seem to find the words even after he stops to think, “unreal.” Kassandra bites at her bottom lip, chewing on the skin with her teeth. “What’s wrong?”

It’s too early, too soon, and she shakes her head. “Nothing. Let’s get to the safehouse before Mater decides to find out what’s taking so long.”

They reach the safehouse with ease. It’s nothing special, a simple house with two smaller bedrooms jutting off the main room. The interior is trashed, pots broken, tapestries ripped, papers strewn about. Brasidas knows what to look for and he sets to work immediately, rifling through the debris with an eye for detail like Ikaros. Kassandra is less graceful, reading through too many manifests of grain and supplies and things that make her head spin. Then she hears the distinct sound of footsteps and she raises a hand to halt Brasidas, to freeze themselves so that the rustle of paper doesn’t tip their potential target off.

They split up, kissing once before she takes off towards the meeting point. She finds Philonoe and Niloxenos trapped in the cave, relegated to cages like mere animals. She frees Lagos’s family, slaughtering the guards that watch the two caged civilians like cowards. Unarmed family members caught in the midst of the cult’s dealings for no reason. Kassandra sees red.

She guides the two of them back to the safehouse, watching for any surprise attacks from the cult, but there are none. Despite Lagos’s extra precautions with mercenaries tailing Kassandra and her mother, there is no one expecting her to escape with his family. She makes it back to the safehouse with the family and reconnects with Brasidas and the family’s slave. “It’s not safe here,” Kassandra says as they meet, “The cult would think to look here first for the missing family once they realize their guards are dead.”

Brasidas nods and they bring the family to another house that their slave knows is safe and abandoned. In the morning, they will strike out for the east, towards Argolis under the cover of anonymity. “We will free Lagos from the cult, but you must remain unknown for your safety.” Kassandra warns as the three of them close the farmhouse door for the night.

“Now,” Kassandra says to Brasidas as they walk away from the house, “We free Lagos.”

Lagos is holed up in a tower in Fort Samikon. His hiding spot is far away from the gates, but that makes things easier for Kassandra, who climbs up the cliff like she was born to do so. Nobody expects her surprises from the other side of the forts, appearing on the parapets like a shadow in the night. Ikaros tags the exact room that Lagos hides in and Kassandra stalks through the tall grasses inside of the fort until she can break the door down.

Lagos is both what she expected and nothing like her imagination. He is calculating, chooses his words as carefully as Brasidas but without the need for pause, an oddity in Sparta. Vaguely, she wonders how he got mixed up with the cult, but he gives her the information she desperately seeks without argument. “Kassandra,” Lagos says as she makes to leave, the weight of Pausanias’s betrayal heavy in her hand, “Tell Brasidas I’m sorry. He’s a good man, too good to be wrapped up in this terrible war.”

“I will.”

Kassandra shows her mother and Brasidas the proof at the cliff side camp of Pausanias’s treachery. Brasidas seems to be stunned by the news, but Myrrine is unpredictably not. “I knew it,” she mutters under her breath, “A new king. A new alliance. I may disagree with King Archidamos, but he has always looked out for Sparta’s best interests.”

Kassandra joins Brasidas in his tent for the night, vaguely disappointed by the inability to tease Brasidas in the night but savoring the feel of his skin against hers on the bedroll. With the bounty lifted, there’s no need to keep a hyper vigilant watch like Myrrine and Brasidas had done for the past few months. Ikaros will watch out for them, like he’s done for Kassandra so many times before. In the morning, she will feed him bits of her breakfast in appreciation and he will sleep with his beak tucked between his feathers while they tear down the camp.

Sparta is a three-day journey with their camp piled on top of the horses and walking steadily towards the coast. They part in the Spartan agora, with Myrrine heading towards Agape’s home and Brasidas towards his own. Tomorrow Myrrine will request an audience with the kings and the ephors, which will take a few more days of preparation. For the briefest moment, Kassandra wonders if she should head south towards Gytheion when Brasidas takes her hand and pulls her through the streets of Sparta like he had in the Arkadian forest.

Brasidas doesn’t have many things to put away when he gets home for the first time in months, but that’s to be expected. A light traveler he had told her once. He doesn’t even light any candles in the house before he’s pulling her into his bedroom and pushing her onto the bed. She comes around his tongue, his fingers, and his cock, all before the morning light breaks.

Living with Brasidas is too easy. It ought to be harder based on the way that women on Kephallonia had complained and Kassandra almost wonders if they’re doing it wrong. Four days, the ephors had demanded, before they would see Kassandra and her mother. “Brasidas,” Kassandra throws a grape at his head and laughs when it bounces off of his crown, “did I tell you about your messenger in Arkadia? The mercenary you hired to stay by the statue?” Brasidas looks up from his papers and frowns at the grape now rolling on the floor. “He betrayed you. I had to beat your location out of him.”

Brasidas’s frown deepens and she brings another grape over for him. He takes it from her hand and pops it in his mouth while maintaining his unpleased expression. “You only beat him?”

“Broke his weapons too, cheap material for someone who claims to be a mercenary. He wouldn’t have lasted long on the battlefield.”

“Violent, but not deadly,” his glare breaks and he grabs at Kassandra’s wrist, pulling her to him. He hums with approval against her chest, covered only by her thin tunic she wears when she has no plans of leaving for the day. She places the plate of grapes on the table, on top of his work, and straddles him on the bench, her fingers in his hair as she kisses him. It’s all too easy.

Kassandra meets her mother in the throne room, Archidamos and Pausanias glaring daggers at her. She won them their respective lands, but the ephors make their presence known that they are there to judge the two most powerful men in Sparta. Pausanias plays his innocence well, acting shocked until Kassandra pulls the letter from Lagos out that leaves no question of his allegiance. The ephors take the letter and read over it in a tight circle, whispers threatening to break over their huddle.

The ephors vote to exile Pausanias unanimously and Archidamos returns Myrrine and Kassandra both their house and their citizenships. With the home now securely theirs, Kassandra wonders if she’ll have to move her smattering of belongings from Brasidas’s home. But Myrrine isn’t blind, nor is she stupid as they clear the dust out of the house from Stentor’s absence. “If you’d rather stay with Brasidas, I understand. I was young too once.”

Kassandra’s ears burn in embarrassment, but there’s a happiness inside of her at her mother’s insistence. The home is dusty, but the house is still the same as Kassandra remembers, her room barely touched besides the addition of another bed, probably Stentor’s. Even Alexios’s bassinet hasn’t moved from its spot in the corner. Did it sting at Stentor as a young man? To share a bedroom with his father’s two ghost children? “Kassandra,” Myrrine calls out from the main room, “Brasidas is here.”

He left for training this morning when Kassandra had gone to see the ephors and the kings. Though it nears maybe two in the afternoon, it feels like eons ago since they shared a loaf of bread for breakfast. “Brasidas? Why are you here instead of in training?”

Brasidas gives her a kiss on the cheek when she enters the room and she swats him away. Myrrine rolls her eyes. “There is word of danger in Pylos. A destructive Athenian force like no other.”

“Deimos,” Myrrine breathes out and Brasidas nods.

An uneasiness strikes in Kassandra’s stomach as Brasidas continues, “I will wait for you in Gytheion on the ship. Please hurry Kassandra, Spartans are dying.” He leaves and Kassandra wants to beg him not to go, to let her deal with her force of nature brother alone. Then she processes the feeling inside of her; fear.

“Mater,” Kassandra pleads after Brasidas is gone, but what can she say to her mother who will stay in the safety of Sparta? Away from the hard decisions that Kassandra can only see coming on the road ahead. Does she even have the power to save both Brasidas and Alexios?

Myrrine takes Kassandra’s hands, squeezes them tight with the fire of determination in her eyes, “Bring back Alexios, Kassandra,” Myrrine says, “This may be our only chance to be a family again.”

Kassandra wants to be selfish, damn her childhood family because she has Brasidas now, knows that the gods themselves have hand picked them for one another. If Alexios wants to cut down his chances at happiness, then who is she to stop him? But the fear of losing Brasidas to the Kosmos like she’s lost so many others strikes her down to a simple, “Yes, Mater.”

Pylos is on fucking fire, that much she can see from the docks of the Adrestia. The smoke rises in plumes from the battlefields and Kassandra can hear the clashing of steel from the beaches. This is dire. Brasidas had gone ahead, ever the commander, and he meets her on the sandy beaches. “I wish the circumstances were better,” he says as he kisses her quickly, avoiding the glances of his subordinates. “Messenia is beautiful in the spring.”

“Brasidas,” Kassandra starts, “Deimos is my brother.” Brasidas tenses next to her, his jaw tightening and his intake of air sharp inside his nostrils. “Please,” she takes his hand, damn the soldiers watching them from the camp, “Don’t fight him.” _Don’t make me choose_ , she begs.

Brasidas doesn’t look at her, instead his eyes watching the waves and scanning the small beach that the Spartans have reclaimed by losing too many men. “I will do my best.” Brasidas says and Kassandra feels so small next to him, so helpless in this familial clash that drags the all of Hellas down with it. “Come,” he pulls her away from the lapping waves, “we must meet our fate.”

In the heat of the forest, the earth turns black, trees licking with flames and the scent of blood and death permeate in the air. They part after a wave of Athenians separates them, Kassandra bathing in their blood as she runs spear and sword alike through torsos, necks, heads, every part of them that she can reach. The battlefield is large and too crowded to take much time beyond parries and quick shots at Athenians. There are so many of them, outnumbering the Spartans by waves. Kassandra does not let up though, the blood of Olympos running hot through her veins as she takes out twenty, thirty, forty Athenian soldiers without any effort.

She sees him, Deimos on the battle field striking down as many Spartans as she does Athenians. He locks eyes with her, a sick grin curling on his face and he matches her body count one for one. Kassandra makes her way towards him on the battlefield, stupid Spartans trying to get a cheap shot on Deimos, only to be cut down like flowers in a field. They close the distance, eyes full of rage as they approach each other.

And then Kassandra’s vision goes white as she watches Brasidas charge him. “Brasidas,” she screams out and Deimos doesn’t miss the twinge of fear in her voice, cutting Brasidas down with two deep gashes. Brasidas lays still on the ground and Kassandra begs absolutely every single god in Olympos, any fucking god that will save his life. She sees the thread between them thin out, unraveling before her very eyes before it reaches the tiny thread that Myrrine’s had been. But it stabilizes and she sees Brasidas’s chest rise once and the battlefield floods back to her all at once.

Kassandra doesn’t remember the fight with Deimos. She remembers the rage, the way that her arms slashed at Deimos with a power even she is unaware of. She is not in control of her movements as she digs her spear through Deimos's arm, aiming for vital points on him. Damn her mother’s wishes, her fucking mother’s selfishness for a family that may not ever be whole. Kassandra pushes harder than she ever has in her life, her vision tunneled on Deimos and running her blade through his heart. She can bleed and so can he. She will ensure it.

The burning forests of Pylos engulf both brother and sister.


	3. so i'll wait for you

Kassandra spends nearly three months rotting in an Athenian jail. Three months she spends watching her tiny string, a sliver at this point, grow thicker. When she wakes in the jail for the first time, the thread is like a spider’s web; so thin that she wonders if it’ll snap by breathing on it. Time is fuzzy at first, but she spends almost a week being drugged with sedatives on an Athenian boat where she can’t tell if it’s night or day, only that the waves are slowly rocking them. They feed her a clear broth that tastes like dirty cabbage which keeps her alive and does not much else.

Eventually the evil physician (she doesn’t know who it is, because the drug makes her memory foggy and all she can remember is the waves) recedes and she regains her consciousness in Athens. She’s weak, probably purposely, her limbs are heavy and she feels like sleeping all day long from malnutrition. Her stomach growls until it gives up each day, retreating like an animal beat into submission. For an entire month she does nothing but stare at the walls, at the sun as it moves along its celestial path, watch her little red thread grow thicker. At least Brasidas is alive.

At the beginning of the second month, Kleon visits for the first time. He goads at her, trying to rile her up, but she ignores him. Don’t give in to his satisfaction, pretend like he’s nothing more than the dog shit on the bottom of her sandal. A week later, he returns, asking how her Spartan soldiers will free her in the middle of Athens. She ignores him again; she does not need anyone to free her, only an opportunity. “Too bad Brasidas can’t save you anymore,” he taunts and Kassandra feels fire burn in her empty stomach.

“Brasidas lives,” Kassandra says for the first time in a month and a half.

Kleon laughs, an evil sort of laugh that Kassandra can barely stand, but she won’t let him break her. “Deimos killed that dog in Pylos.”

“No,” Kassandra says with such certainty that Kleon stops laughing. She turns to him, facing him in his ugly white armor, “Brasidas is still alive.”

Kassandra ignores any more of his comments after that, taking a seat on the sparse collection of hay that she has piled into a sad excuse for a bed. Deimos must have told him, that he unlocked the key to Kassandra in the middle of the battlefield when she thought Brasidas dead. Her Achilles’s heel.

Another half a month passes. Kassandra cannot continue on like this, living on clear broth that brings only enough strength to keep her heart beating. Her muscles are weakening and she worries what will happen when she finally seizes her opportunity to escape. Her face must be hollow by now, her limbs turning to twigs. Deimos laughs at her through the bars of the cell, at what she’s become.

His face sparks something in her, the burning rage that she knows will substitute for her lost strength. Instead of sustained energy, she’ll have to work in bursts. She sees him slicing through Brasidas’s chest like a rag doll and something inside of her coils, ready to unleash. “Tell me what you know,” Deimos says and Kassandra doesn’t want to, but vaguely in the back of her head, she hears her mother.

So she tells him. How the cult stole him from their family, how their mother tried so desperately to save him, that the cult spoils his mind with whispers of cruelty. “That man,” Kassandra knows Deimos is talking about Brasidas, “what is he to you?”

Her mother would tell her to be honest about Brasidas, that honesty is the only way to get through to Alexios at this point. But she can’t, can’t put that sort of target on Brasidas’s back, or chest, or wherever Deimos aims his blade. “He’s a soldier.”

Deimos barks a laugh in the same fashion that Kleon had given her. “Fucking liar. Nobody would believe that, not after what I saw in Pylos.”

“Yeah? What did you see?”

Deimos’s smile turns malicious, “A little girl scared for her boyfriend.” Kassandra tries so hard to conceal her rage, her anguish, but Deimos laughs and she knows she’s failed. “I will kill him Kassandra,” Deimos says with a grin that makes Kassandra feel numb with dread and her stomach twist angrily with fear. “I will tear his guts out with my sword and dig his heart out with my bare hands. I will make his death painful.” For the first time in Kassandra’s life, she is glad to see Kleon when he scolds Deimos. Deimos grabs him by the breastplate, pushing Kleon up against the wall and snarling in his face, “I am not your puppet.” With a huff, Deimos leaves.

Kleon sends in two men to finish Kassandra, misjudging her thinned arms and torso for weakness. She has become a distraction for Deimos apparently. It takes all of her strength to kill the two guards, snapping their necks and rummaging through their pockets for the key to her cell. When she finally gets out of the cell, the sun burns on her skin and a singular wall has never looked so tall in her life. By the time she gets to the roof of the prison where she can scale the guard wall easier, she’s panting, exhausted from the lack of nutrition and the unfamiliarity of any physical activity. There is one place in this city that she will be safe.

She finds Alkibiades’s home and knocks on the door frantically before any Athenian soldiers can see her. Alkibiades barely recognizes her when he comes down from the bedroom after being ushered in by a servant. “By the gods, is that Kassandra of Sparta?” Kassandra nods, too exhausted to do much else. Her last meal was over a day ago, a tiny bowl of that clear broth with the taste of moldy mushrooms. Alkibiades sends his servant for some bread and brings her to his bed to actually sleep for the first time in almost three months.

For the first two days, Kassandra feels like she’s bothering the statesman as she recovers. Her meals are small but hearty and at first, she feels like vomiting, but eventually she learns to eat again. Alkibiades has sent word to Barnabas and Herodotos who happen to have come back to Athens at Herodotos’s urging. Despite their loyalty to the Spartan with a broken spear, both men still hold strong ties to Athens and her people. Barnabas greets Kassandra with tears in his eyes, “worried sick,” Herodotos claims though the historian’s eyes also shine wet with tears.

It’s decided that Kassandra must return to Sparta to finish regaining her strength. Alkibiades’s sources claim that Kleon’s guards watch for her and that a high-ranked captain keeps a constant eye on the Adrestia for any movement. Athens is no longer safe for her. One month, they agree, Athens can continue to suffer under Kleon’s rage. She’s no use to anyone if she’s too weak to fend for herself. Alkibiades lends her his best horse and Herodotos returns her spear, stolen back from the prison by a spy paid far too handsomely.

Without her usual energy, the journey from Athens to Sparta is hard. She used to be able to spend most of her days traveling, but she finds herself needing more rest than she did when she travelled to Arkadia from Sparta. Ikaros keeps good watch of her during the long nights where she sleeps heavier than she is used to in the forest. The borrowed horse is slower too, less willing to strain for an unknown master. The journey that could have taken her three days takes her nearly five days. The family home has never looked so welcoming than when Kassandra ties Alkibiades’s horse to the post outside.

Myrrine cries immediately when Kassandra walks through the door, mumbling praises to the gods in Kassandra’s ear as her mother holds her. “Alexios,” Kassandra starts, but Myrrine hushes her before she can say anything else.

“Not now lamb, let us enjoy the moment.” Myrrine rocks Kassandra gently in her arms, still savoring the fact that Kassandra is alive and here. “I’ll make dinner, but tomorrow you should see Brasidas.”

When she had set off for Sparta originally, Kassandra had tried to convince herself that she was coming to Sparta for reasons besides seeing him. But what was the point in lying though? She knew he was technically alive, that her string still connected to him, the thread thickened to the stray string when she’d first met him. “Is he okay?” Kassandra asks as Myrrine pulls away and hurries towards the hearth.

Myrrine doesn’t answer at first and Kassandra feels her heart sinking into her stomach, “He’s better. His wounds were very serious, lamb. The healers weren’t sure if he’d make it back to Sparta alive, but he’s strong. He came back a week after the battle, unable to walk. He’s recently begun training again. I think seeing you would be good for him.”

Kassandra knocks on the door the next day, the sun high in the sky and beating down on Sparta, sweat running down her back. There’s a delay, rustling beyond the door and the mutterings of Brasidas’s curses. Kassandra’s mouth turns dry when she sees him, pale, thinned with weakness, though she supposes she doesn’t look much better. But he’s here, alive, warm and real in front of her and tears spring to her eyes immediately, brought back to that terrible burning forest in Messenia. Together, they collapse in an embrace of ugly tears in Brasidas’s doorway.

Somehow, they move inside of Brasidas’s home, to the table where she first kissed him eight months ago. They check each other over, Kassandra running her hands over his torso to reassure herself that his chest was healed, his heart and vital organs still secured inside of his chest. The gash is almost healed, but the skin is still harsh and pink and ragged. His leg is still bandaged and serum leaks slightly if he strains it too much, despite three months of healing. He surveys the new scars on her back where the tree had pinned her down, where flames had licked at her back through her armor. A new set of small nicks on her arms that she doesn’t remember getting from fighting Deimos.

But they’re here and he’s alive and she can protect him even in her current state. “You came back to me,” Brasidas says unbelieving as he traces a particularly ugly mark on her torso from where she’d taken a close hit from Deimos. Another one she barely remembers, though it must have bled terribly judging by the angry scar. “How can you keep beating every odd?”

“Brasidas,” Kassandra says slowly, taking Brasidas’s hands into her own. She looks at them, their thread thickened again to the size of wool again, relief flooding through every part of her, “This is going to sound crazy,” she warns.

“You’re here, you’re here,” he repeats, “That’s crazy enough.”

She grabs where she can see his string, the first knuckle on his right pinky, holding it tight between her thumb and index finger. “The gods fated us together. Mater told me.” Kassandra can see the questions flying around in his head. “Every person has a red string on their finger that connects to another person, hand-picked by the gods to be lovers. We are connected. I can see it.”

“How?”

Kassandra shakes her head, pressing her own right pinky against his and watching the threads line up perfectly. “I have power that I can’t explain,” she starts, “Mater does too. It runs in our blood. It gives me my strength in battle, but it also lets me see our red strings.”

Brasidas looks between their fingers and her face, trying his best to will this imaginary string into existence and failing. “What does it look like?”

“It’s thick, but it wasn’t always.” Kassandra brings Brasidas’s hand up to her face, kissing at the knuckle where the knot lies flat against his skin. “When we met in Korinth, it was thin. Then we kissed and it thickened. In Pylos it almost broke but now it’s thick again. It’s bright red, almost blinding, and thick like sheep’s wool. It wraps around our right pinkies, first knuckle, a little knot right on top.” She can see Brasidas analyzing their fingers as if effort alone could make it appear. “Trust me.”

Brasidas swallows hard and looks at Kassandra, eyes full of joy. “Is that why everything’s so easy together?” Kassandra nods, but she has no idea.

The first week of training is brutal, rebuilding strength that makes her burn with embarrassment at losing. Things that would have been easy months ago make sweat run down her brow and pant pathetically. If anyone knows determination though, it’s Kassandra and she pushes herself harder than any of the other soldiers who watch her. Her muscles burn at first, but she relishes the pain and by the end of the week she feels her old strength returning. Brasidas matches her enthusiasm, but his training is slower with his leg still twitching angrily at too much movement.

It’s so good, training again and feeling herself return to her old self again. She unleashes fury against training dummies that puts even the most practiced soldiers to shame. Her moves are fueled by red hot anger, but calculated with the experience that only a person who has spent years on the road would have. By the end of the second week of training, she is beating the best that Sparta’s military camps have to offer.

Kassandra spends her nights in Brasidas’s bed, learning his new scars and kissing them each appreciatively. Every scar he has is a reminder of how he could have been taken away, but wasn’t. Both of their trainings come along well, both of them exceeding expectations by the camp’s healer and by the end of the third week in Sparta, Kassandra is ready to return to Athens. On her second to last night in Sparta, Myrrine invites her and Brasidas over for dinner with the promise of freshly cooked pork.

“Mater,” Kassandra says after the meal is over, the servants taking their plates to be cleaned. “Alexios,” she feels a lump form in her throat, knows that Myrrine will despise her for the rest of her life, “is beyond saving. He is an animal.”

Myrrine, unpredictably, does not jump immediately to defending her son. There are tears in her eyes, but she does not argue or yell like Kassandra is expecting. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s a monster,” Kassandra starts, Brasidas nodding solemnly next to her, “I fucked up in Pylos,” she starts, the lump growing in her throat. “I called out to Brasidas. And Deimos heard, targeted Brasidas because of that. I am the reason Brasidas nearly died.” Tears roll down her cheeks, hot, burning as Brasidas pulls her into his arms. He shushes her cries, but does not add to the conversation between mother and daughter. “In Athens,” Kassandra chokes out, “he promised me Brasidas’s death. He has no remorse. No care for his own blood.”

Myrrine gently pries Kassandra’s right hand from Brasidas, holding it gently like a child. “Kassandra,” Myrrine says with a voice so soft Kassandra almost misses it over the sound of her own cries, “You are strong. I trust your decision. You will make the right choice in the end.”

The last night in Sparta, Kassandra spends in Brasidas’s apartment, trying to will the morning light away as though it will keep her from departing. But it comes, as the sun always does, peaking over the waves of the Aegean and she must depart. “Be safe, my love,” Kassandra says as she peels herself away from Brasidas.

“Come back to me safely.”

Kassandra rides to Athens in four days, entering the city under the anonymity of a hood and averting eyes from anyone in blue armor. Together with Sokrates, Barnabas, Alkibiades, and Aristophanes, they formulate a plan to ruin Kleon’s image. It aims to dismantle him from every angle, cause him to fall from the grace of the rich and the poor alike. The plan is good, long, spanning three and a half months of constant work from the circle of friends who gather under the cover of night in Perikles’s old home. While in Athens, she stays in Herodotos’s home, small but containing the basics. It reminds her vaguely of Brasidas’s apartment.

The group meet with hushed whispers and work late into the night, avoiding being spotted by any of Kleon’s guards who still keep watch for Kassandra on the streets. Too many times she has had to flee the market or hide bodies in the gardens. In a way though, it’s been good practice for her, resharpening her skills back to their original point. They are interrupted one night by a messenger, knocking at Perikles’s door. They do not answer, but the knocking does not stop, and Alkibiades answers as he’s the least likely to be arrested in the room.

“A letter for Kassandra from Brasidas,” Alkibiades throws it onto the table. They all watch her uncurl the long, thin paper, the message nonsense until she remembers that Brasidas is a Spartan general, that this is most definitely a skytale. But what would be the key? Weren’t they supposed to agree on something before he sent the message to her? He wouldn’t have known where she would be in Athens, wouldn’t know what she would have on her, so it must be something that she carries with her everywhere.

Her spear. She grabs the weapon off of her back, curls the message around the handle and it lines up perfectly. The handle of her spear too thin for most people to think about using, too obvious in a way, but the letters align and the message is clear. “I am in Amphipolis. Please come.”

The next night, Kassandra kills the captain watching the Adrestia under the cover of night, hiding his body in the ocean. The Adrestia is prepped inhumanely fast, sailing by the time the moon reaches its peak in the night sky. Amphipolis is a two-day sail and Kassandra tries to urge the ship faster by leaning on the handrails as though she can push it along faster. Wherever Kleon goes, Deimos goes.

Kassandra jumps off of the Adrestia before it’s even docked, running at full speed towards the Spartan camp. The soldiers know immediately why she is here, pointing her towards a generic tent that looks no different than any of the others lined up on the wall. She does not call out to him, pulling the cloth back and feeling herself flood with relief at his face. “Why are you here?” she demands before he even has time to greet her. “Why are you _here_?”

Brasidas sighs, standing, wincing at his leg twisting too awkwardly. It will never be fully healed after half a year, yet he stupidly carries on. She wants to get down on her hands and knees to beg him to please go back to Sparta, let her deal with this, but he wouldn’t listen. “Kassandra,” he whispers to her, reaching out to grab her. “You got my message.”

“You do not fight him,” Kassandra warns, disregards his reply. “You swear to me on your life, Braisdas of Sparta, that you will not fight Deimos.”

“He’s here?” Brasidas asks, genuinely surprised by the idea of Deimos appearing on the battlefield. “There were no reports of Deimos.”

Kassandra pulls Brasidas into her arms, a pit forming in her stomach that she cannot ignore. “He is Athens’ dog. He will follow Kleon almost undoubtedly.” She swallows hard, her grip on Brasidas’s shoulders tightening. “You do not fight him.” Brasidas only nods against her shoulder.

There is a skirmish, a surprise attack by Athenian soldiers on the wall, drawing the Spartans out of their camps. They are outnumbered three to one, at least. Their only weapon is Kassandra and Brasidas, the two who are most skilled in Athenian trainings. It is inevitable that they get separated on the battlefield, lose each other in a sea of blue and white. She finds him, angles herself towards him and moves to his side.

For a moment she forgets to watch her back and then she is across the battlefield, dirt stuck between her teeth and her limbs bleeding from deep scrapes, her back radiating wave after wave of pain. Deimos lowers his leg from a true Spartan kick, one as powerful as her own. Deimos’s eyes darting between her and Brasidas, his flank now defenseless. Time slows to a stop, but Kassandra cannot move, cannot cry out, only watch as Deimos digs his sword between Brasidas’s upper ribs and slices him open.

Everything goes white.

Kassandra cannot breathe.

Her entire body is numb.

In between the whiteness of her vision,

the red string snaps.

And she has never felt pain so immense as this,

shockwaves rolling throughout her body one after another.

She screams bloody murder,

screams her throat raw,

but it does not ease her pain.

The red string falls limp on her pinky,

before it slides off of her knuckle all together.

She tries to catch the string,

but it slips between her fingers,

landing in the dust of Amphipolis.

The whiteness in her vision slowly fades to red, until she cannot see anything except the sick smile of her brother, standing over Brasidas’s lifeless body. She lets out a war cry so intense that fear flashes on Deimos’s face for a split second, and then she is moving at a speed faster than Hermes himself. Deimos is barely able to get his sword up to block her first attack at his chest, his arms buckling under her strength. He is saying things to her, but she does not hear him over the blood rushing angrily in her ears. She releases attack after attack, their blows so forceful that other soldiers are blown away by the impact. Around them, the battlefield vacates, whether in retreat or death, Kassandra does not care.

She grazes Deimos’s stomach, splits open his breastplate and his gut with her spear. His blood pools at their feet, but she does not stop, another stab into his left shoulder. He lands face down at her feet, blood soaking the ground, but her body is still numb. She sees Brasidas, his body unmoving, and she unleashes a terror that will not leave this battlefield. She strikes at every Athenian soldier, cutting them down like they are paper. She does not know what has happened to the Spartan soldiers, whether the second in command has ordered a retreat or not, but she continues to kill Athenians indiscriminately.

When she comes to her senses, there are two people left on the battlefield; herself and Kleon. Kleon takes off running, like the wrath of the Eagle Bearer will not follow him. She corners him on a beach, holding his head down in the ocean with her foot until he stops struggling. And then she takes her spear and stabs him, over and over, cursing him for drawing Brasidas here, for drawing Deimos here. But even when the tide pool turns red, her hands soaked in Kleon’s blood, her string will not come back.

The battle is over. Kassandra stands on shaky legs, her body empty as she lifts one foot in front of the other. She is standing on the battlefield, her mind numb and her eyes lifeless as she watches the Spartans collect their dead. There are not many dead Spartans on the field, compared to the blanket of Athenian bodies but she feels nothing. She notes that Deimos’s body is gone, the spot where they had fought a perfect circle of emptiness. Vaguely, she is aware that Deimos is not dead, that she failed to strike a killing blow in her haste.

She is sobbing by the time her feet carry her to Brasidas’s body, tears freely running down her face without hesitation and her nose running. The other Spartan soldiers may judge her, but she does not care as she sinks down onto her knees, kneeling over Brasidas’s cold corpse. She closes his eyes, kissing at his dead lips and uselessly begs for him to stay with her. But he is gone.

Kassandra stays there for what seems like hours, muttering the stupidest things to Brasidas like how if maybe she had eaten figs for breakfast maybe he would still be here. There is a gentle touch to her shoulder, one too soft to be any Spartan soldier here to ask her for Brasidas’s body. Through foggy vision, she barely makes out Herodotos and Barnabas’s faces. Together, they carry her lover’s body to the Spartan camp as the sun sets.

She looks away when they light the pyre for him, burying her face in Barnabas’s shoulder like she is four years old. The other soldiers must think her weak by this point, but she doesn’t care what these men think of her. She goes back to the Adrestia, Herodotos on her right and Barnabas on her left, supporting her as best they can. “Kleon is dead,” she announces hollowly as they climb the gangplank, “We go to Sparta.”

There are no further questions, the crew undocking less than twelve hours after arriving. The gentle rocking of the waves lulls her into an uneasy sleep. Her dreams are haunted with her brother, the monster occupying his body, and she wakes reaching for her spear. She leaves her bedroll in the belly of the ships and climbs up to the deck, bathing in the light of the stars. “Kassandra,” Herodotos says gently when she sits next to him on the bench, patting her head in the saddest way, “I’m sorry.”

She tells Herodotos everything as the ship sails south. He listens wholly, letting her air out everything that has happened to her in the past three years since Korinth. How she found the red string by accident and the intense, immeasurable pain she felt when it broke. And when she is done, a sobbing mess in his lap like a child, he says it again. “I’m sorry.”

Logically, she feels pathetic. She should be used to this pain now, her family so many decades ago, Phoibe; Brasidas is just another casualty to add to her ever-expanding list. Emotionally though, she is still numb, unable to even pretend like she is fine in front of her crew. But she suspects that Herodotos has told everyone her story by now because nobody questions it or asks her about it, and for that she is grateful.

It takes three days to sail from Makedonia to Lakonia, three days of nothing but her memories. By the morning of the third day, she thinks maybe she can hold together long enough, but then they sail into Gytheion and she crumbles. She remembers sailing out of this harbor seven and a half months ago towards Pylos and all the false strength she has accumulated dissolves.

Phobos brings her to the Agiad home quickly and Kassandra kisses at the horse’s nose in thanks as she ties the reigns up. “Mater,” Kassandra calls out as she opens the door, Myrrine appearing from one of the bedrooms. Kassandra collapses in her mother’s arms and says aloud for the first time, “Brasidas is dead.”

When she wakes the next morning, she is on the kline, a thin blanket covering her and her tears dried to her cheeks. Myrrine is making a small breakfast for them with the aid of the servant and Kassandra lays there with the sun shining on her face, feeling hollow.

“Mater,” Kassandra calls out and both Myrrine and the servant jump in their skin at her voice, “I need to go, to the place where this all began.”

Myrrine hands Kassandra a plate of grapes and figs, “You feel it too?”

In the late morning, they take off on their horses towards the mountain. She does not know why she and her mother are both compelled her, like by the will of the gods. They spur their horses on, abandoning them when the horses tire in the thinning air. At the precipice, Deimos stands, looking out across Lakonia. He is still wounded, the gash in his shoulder visible from behind, turning with a slight wince when he faces the two of them.

“Isn’t this touching,” Deimos calls out, taunting Kassandra and Myrrine, “Where is your little boyfriend?” Kassandra’s emptiness turns black, hatred poisoning her veins, but she does not respond.

“Enough!” Myrrine calls out, startling both of them and they turn their gazes towards their mother. “Alexios, you don’t have to do this anymore. We can be a family again.”

Kassandra grits her teeth, fists curling and drawing blood on her palms, “No.” Myrrine turns to Kassandra, her face twisted into a horrified expression, “This is not your son. This is a monster wearing his face.”

“You should have killed me in Amphipolis,” Deimos laughs, holding his stomach with his uninjured arm. Kassandra doesn’t know how he got here so quickly, less than five days, but she doesn’t care. “You are too weak to do what must be done,” Deimos laughs, “But I can. I know what must be done in this world to ensure order.”

Kassandra moves forward, ignores Myrrine’s cries of her name. She thrusts her spear through Deimos’s throat, throwing him off of the cliff for the second, final time. "That was for Brasidas," she screams through her tears, watching Deimos fall to the ravine below. Myrrine's cries shake Kassandra to her core as she moves to stare at her son's body laying at the foot of Mount Taygetos. It’s over. The rocks at the edge of the cliff dig into Kassandra’s knees as she and her mater hold each other, both sobbing for those they’ve lost.

The next week they bring back Brasidas’s shield, giving it to his parents who receive it proudly though their jaws shake with bitten back tears. His apartment is officially reclaimed as Spartan property and Kassandra steals into the home in the middle of the night just to get their blanket. She curls up with it in her home, burying her face in the scratchy cloth, the scent of Brasidas bringing tears to her eyes.

Slowly Kassandra gets better. She heals gradually, bit by bit. It’s hard, harder than anything she’s ever had to do before. She cannot kill her inner demons with her spear like she can cultists or pirates or bandits. A month after Brasidas’s death she is back on the Adrestia, sailing towards the next cultist location.

Six months pass, searing pain receding to a dull ache that pushes her ever forward. She visits his grave, leaves flowers, kisses the headstone, tells him of the places she has traveled. She apologizes that she wasn’t able to save him and asks him to wait for her in the next life. Sparta reveres him as a hero and she proudly tells his story to anyone who asks; makes his name synonymous with peace and strength.

In the fall, Kassandra travels northward to Phokis for an assignment. A cultist holed up in a cave surrounded by animals. The colors of the leaves are beautiful in Korinthia, yellows and oranges and reds, the crisp ones crunching under Phobos’s hooves. She remembers passing through these lands months ago, urging Alkibiades’s horse to carry her to Athens faster. How she raced the horse through with barely paying any mind to the beauty of the land.

The hills roll gracefully along the land, forests thick with animals and flora. The warmth of summer retreats as the winds blow in cold from the north. Kassandra pulls her cloak around her tighter and curls inwards on herself during a particularly strong gust. She hopes to complete this journey and return before frost begins forming at night.

Phobos continues onward along the dirt road, a quick pace that Kassandra knows would tire most horses. But Phobos is strong and loyal and Kassandra is grateful. In the bright sun, Kassandra thinks she’s momentarily gone crazy as she sees a red string stretch out in front of her, trailing up the path. At first she thinks it a mirage or a daydream, but then Kassandra’s heart nearly stops when she looks down and sees a thin red string wrapped tightly around her left pinky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with this until the end y'all

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: lacedwithlilacs


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